


Substitution and Acceptance

by snailboat64



Category: Human Target (TV 2010)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Secret Relationship, Smut, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snailboat64/pseuds/snailboat64
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Ilsa reluctantly accepts that a relationship with Chance isn't going to happen, she finds herself considering Guerrero's offer of assistance.Turns out she's even more high-maintenance than he thought</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and this is written for fun not profit.**
> 
>  
> 
> **This is for cedricsowner who has been very patient!**

* * *

Ilsa fidgeted with her watch. Nine fifteen pm. Nine sixteen now, according to her PC. Chance was late. Forty-six minutes late. She'd even agreed to meet him here, at the office so that even if he was running a bit behind, she'd know he was just upstairs taking a shower or changing his clothes. She hadn't counted on him going out someplace first, and now she was just hanging around the empty building feeling like a nervous teenager, making up increasingly feeble excuses as to why her date was delayed.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She had stayed because he asked her to, and despite the excruciating awkwardness of their conversation at the airstrip, she thought there had been an understanding reached. She would stay, for him, and then? Well, there hadn't been a specific plan, but the implication had been clear enough; they would see where this mutual attraction they had been dancing around for all these months would lead.

She'd hoped that they might spend some time together, away from the rest of the team, time in which they could relax, get to know each other better and maybe…

Ilsa sighed at the thought of what else they might have done. It had been a long time since she had shared her bed with a man, and even longer since that man had been anyone but Marshall. She was finally ready to take the step from idle fantasy to breathtaking reality, and Chance had left her high and dry.

At first she thought that maybe she was asking too much of him to attend a Marshall Pucci Foundation fundraiser with her. After all, an event held in her late husband's name was a little inappropriate for a first date, and maybe Chance would have felt like his spectre was peering over his shoulder at every move. So when Chance bowed out at the last minute, she suggested that they might go for an intimate supper at one of her favourite restaurants. But again he cried off, claiming that he had a stomach bug and he would have to stay away from rich food for a while.

Tonight had been her final attempt to spend some time with him away from the workplace. She'd wondered if part of the problem had been all the trappings of money and privilege, which perhaps were too strong a reminder of her late husband. So she'd kept the plan for the evening as simple as possible: a movie followed by a drink at a local bar. The movie would at least provide a topic of conversation, and the drink afterwards would hopefully be the social lubricant they needed to get past the natural awkwardness of moving away from their professional relationship into a more intimate one.

It was now nine twenty-six and Chance was almost a full hour late. She had to face it: she'd been stood up. She'd picked up her purse and her keys, when she heard the arrival of the elevator. Hope fluttered in her stomach as she assumed a suitably annoyed expression that would at least ensure an apology from Chance, and maybe even a rain check, but when the doors opened it was Guerrero who stepped out of the elevator.

"He's not coming, is he?" she sighed.

Guerrero shook his head. He had the grace to look a little embarrassed about it. "He-"

"Don't bother making excuses for him, Guerrero. He's had a whole hour to call me, and the fact that he's sent you to palm me off speaks volumes. He's not here because he doesn't want to be."

"It's not quite as simple as that."

"No, but I'm getting a little frustrated with the whole situation. I just wanted for us to spend some time together and maybe see where things would lead."

"Chance isn't used to the idea of dating like that, Ilsa. With him relationships only last a matter of days, maybe weeks before he gets called away to another job. He's still not used to being settled in one place like this. He normally skips the getting to know you part, gets straight to the sex, and splits before things get messy. I don't know that he even knows how to date."

"Then why keep leading me on like this? Why ask me to stay?"

"I guess he thought he could figure it out. Or maybe he thought if you were leaving things could play out for him like they usually do, and he'd never have to do all they messy day-to-day relationship stuff."

Ilsa frowned. "I don't even know if I want that, but the way things are going there's not even the opportunity for us just to have a little fun together."

Ilsa caught the look of surprise on Guerrero's face. "What? You assumed I thought we would just ride off into the sunset together? I'm a widow, Guerrero, not a schoolgirl! I didn't think that Chance and I would just fall into each other's arms and become the romance of the century! I honestly don't know how things might have developed between us, but I at least thought it would be fun to find out! I care very deeply for Chance and he seemed like the natural choice to…" Ilsa caught herself just in time. "I just felt that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn't find out if we had a hope of making one another happy."

Guerrero nodded. "I think maybe he respects you too much to just fool around."

"Huh! I wish he'd let me have a say in the matter!"

"Been a while then?" Guerrero smirked. "Getting a bit antsy?"

Ilsa face flushed a deep shade of pink as she realised that somehow the conversation had twisted away from the subject of Chance standing her up, towards the much too personal matter of her sex life, or rather the lack of.

"I'm not discussing this with you, Guerrero," she said primly, walking towards the elevator.

"It's just sex, Ilsa. Everyone gets an itch they need a little help scratching once in a while. Chance may not be up for helping you out, but I could-"

"Goodnight, Mr Guerrero," Ilsa said, pressing the button to close the elevator doors.

* * *

Chance attempted to apologise to her the next day, and Ilsa smiled brightly, hiding her disappointment behind polite assurances that she had in fact been too tired to sit through a movie and that she had enjoyed an early night with a good book. Chance was relieved that she accepted his apology and seemed content to leave it at that, with no suggestion that they should reschedule.

Ilsa retreated into her office, and not long after, Winston called them all into the conference room to brief them on their new case. There was no time for either of them to dwell on the matter as the whole team was occupied with the business of saving the client's life and reputation.

* * *

Whenever there was a quiet moment Ilsa's thoughts turned back to Chance and her failed attempts to spend time alone with him. Despite what she'd told Guerrero, she hadn't decided to stay in San Francisco for anything less than a real relationship with Chance, but after every cancelled date she'd tried to dial back her expectations a little further. It was beyond frustrating to spend almost every day with him, but never being able to rekindle that spark that had been so promising when they had shared that rum fuelled kiss on the floor of her office. Perhaps the only reason they had kissed at all was because Ilsa was drunk and emotional enough to initiate it. It had certainly caught Chance by surprise, and maybe that's why her subsequent attempts to start something had failed; given the time and space to consider what she might be asking, Chance had simply baulked.

Ilsa knew the sensible thing to do would be to just leave quietly and without a fuss. The Foundation needed her more than the team did, but she couldn't quite let go of the idea that, given a little more time, perhaps Chance would deliver on that unspoken promise that lay beneath him asking her to stay. Besides, her work with the Foundation always maintained a distance between herself and the people it helped. When she worked with Chance and the team, she could see the results of their efforts first hand, and that made her feel connected and relevant to the world in a way that the Foundation's endless bureaucracy and schmoozing never could.

As infuriating as the stalemate with Chance was, she couldn't just walk away. Maybe her place wasn't really with the team, but it felt like home, and she wasn't ready to give up just yet.

* * *

Once they'd wrapped up the case and Chance had returned to the office, battered and bruised but very pleased with himself, Ilsa finally headed back to her apartment to catch up on some much needed sleep. She felt a deep satisfaction that they'd managed to help someone who really needed it, but she couldn't quite shake the tension that held her body in its grip every time Chance threw himself in harm's way. If she could just reach out and touch him, reassuring herself that he was safe and whole and…

Ilsa was honest enough with herself to admit that she didn't just want to touch Chance to reassure herself that he was uninjured. The thought of running her hands over his body, savoring every taut muscle and all that golden skin sent a rush of damp heat between her legs, tipping the world out of focus as she imagined what it would be like to feel such powerful hands stroking her body, coaxing her to readiness before Chance sunk himself deep inside her.

She didn't need her imagination to feel what it would be like to kiss Chance; the memory of the single kiss they'd shared was burned into her consciousness. She could feel a ghost of it against her lips every time she lay alone in bed, working her fingers over and inside herself, bringing herself to a fevered and unsatisfying climax as she drowned in thoughts of Chance.

Ilsa trusted him, and that trust was an important part of Chance's appeal, as much as his looks and personality. What she'd shared with Marshall was such an intimate connection of body and mind that when he died, she truly believed she would never be able to enjoy sex again. Chance was the only man she could even begin to trust the way she had her late husband, and yet since he asked her to stay he'd done nothing but let her down in dozens of insignificant ways that added up to the depressing conclusion that he was not capable of giving her what she needed. Given time, perhaps she would wear down his defenses and initiate some kind of physical relationship, but it would not be what she craved, what she needed.

The romantic notion that she might find blissful completion in Chance's arms withered up and died, and yet she stayed. She could come up with any number of justifications as to why, but in her heart it came down to one thing: what Chance was trying to achieve was important, and she wanted to be a part of that.

* * *

Guerrero could see that Ilsa was a woman in serious need of a good fuck. She'd obviously had high hopes of starting something with Chance, but even she could see that that idea was going nowhere fast. It wasn't her fault, and Chance really did like her, but a healthy relationship with an attractive (not to mention mentally stable) woman was not something he was emotionally prepared to enter into. Part of it was that he still didn't believe he deserved it, that he hadn't atoned for his past; partly it was to protect Ilsa from the inherent threat to her life that came with getting involved with a man like him; but it also came down to the fact that he didn't really know how to handle romantic relationships.

Despite the way Ames would coo over what a cute couple they would make, and Winston's assertion that being with Ilsa would be good for Chance, Guerrero could see they were a poor match. It saddened him, because he wanted Chance to be happy, but that wasn't going to happen until he decided to let himself be happy. Maybe Ilsa would still be around if and when that day came, but Guerrero kind of doubted it. Now that she'd finally put the whole business of Marshall's murder behind her, she was ready to move on, with or without Chance.

The brief conversation he'd had with her after Chance bailed on their movie date was what really led to his conclusion that sex was what Ilsa really needed. She'd practically admitted as much, and the idea seemed to linger as a problem that needed to be solved. He gave careful consideration to the idea of spelling it out to Chance, of telling him that he should just break the sexual tension by sleeping with her and not obsess about what it might lead to. He wasn't sure that Chance could handle the idea of complicating what was essentially a business relationship like that, and then there was the danger of it unfairly raising Ilsa's expectations. Although she'd said that she might be interested in just having some fun, Guerrero suspected that if it came to it, Ilsa would try to play for keeps.

So Chance wasn't the solution to Ilsa's problem. In fact, he was still very much part of the problem.

Ilsa wasn't exactly short of suitors. By anyone's definition, she was a good catch: beautiful, charming, wealthy, powerful, but it was those last two qualities that were potential problems when dating. She was too much of a prize, and Ilsa had to be careful who she became involved with. Fortunately she was aware of that, and was careful to keep scheming suitors at a safe distance, but that wasn't exactly conducive to her getting laid.

Guerrero was only kidding - well mostly kidding - when he'd offered to scratch the itch that was bothering her, but once the idea popped into his head, it began to take root. He wasn't interested in starting a relationship any more than Chance was, but recreational sex? That was a different matter entirely.

He couldn't even consider making a move until he was one hundred percent sure that Ilsa's chances with Chance were dead in the water, and even then it would wise to keep it quiet. He would need to hear it from Chance directly that he was not interested in being with her, because it was absolutely not worth risking their friendship for. He decided the wisest course of action would be not to pursue her, but just to make her aware of the option and wait to see if she came to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Guerrero - damn him! - was not subtle. Ever since she had let slip the implication that her sex life (or lack thereof) was a source of frustration, he took advantage of every opportunity to remind her of his offer. Sometimes it was a crude innuendo, laughed off as a joke in front of the team, other times it was no more than a calculated look and an innocent sounding compliment about her appearance, but somehow he always managed to make her aware that any time she felt like dealing with her frustration, he was at her disposal.

At first she dismissed the idea as patently ridiculous, but as the weeks went by she began to appreciate Guerrero's attention. She couldn't help but be flattered by the fact that he found her so desirable, and although he was persistent, he was careful never to try to pressure her into anything. He was honest about what he was offering - just sex, no commitment or, God forbid, emotional attachments - and there was something refreshingly honest about that when compared with the constant state of limbo she was left in with Chance. Of course she could never actually take him up on his offer, the very idea was preposterous, but knowing the option was there was strangely liberating.

Nothing changed after she had gave up her efforts to spend time alone with Chance, although it was a relief in a way to stop setting herself up for disappointment. She tried not to hope that something might still happen between them, and told herself that she was absolutely not waiting for him to change his mind, but she still made no active effort to meet anyone else, turning down several well-meaning friends' attempts at matchmaking.

She hadn't considered how the stalemate with Chance would be broken, but in hindsight she supposed it was inevitable that Chance would be the one to hook up with someone else first. One Monday morning Ilsa arrived at the office just in time to see him saying his goodbyes to an attractive brunette, and it was obvious from her backpack that she'd stayed overnight, maybe even the whole weekend. The woman seemed pleasant enough, apologising for having to leave as soon as she arrived, explaining that she had a flight to catch.

Chance had the grace to give Ilsa an awkward, apologetic look after his visitor kissed him soundly on the mouth and stepped into the elevator. Ilsa did the only thing she could; she smiled brightly and walked past him, with all the dignity she could muster, straight into the ladies room so she could cry in private. She was shocked and more than a little heartbroken, but not as hurt as she might have been if the incident had happened months ago when she still believed that Chance might be interested in a relationship with her. She let the tears to flow freely for a minute or two, allowing herself a moment to grieve for what might have been before touching up her make-up and pulling herself together. She'd known things weren't going anywhere with Chance for quite some time, and seeing him with someone else only served to draw a line under the whole thing.

Later in the day Chance made a half-hearted attempt to explain himself, but Ilsa cut him off mid-sentence, informing him that as long as his love-life didn't interfere with his work, it was no concern of hers. He was surprised but obviously relieved at her attitude, and that would have been that had Ames not decided to be outraged on Ilsa's behalf.

"I can't believe he didn't even bother to make sure she was gone before you arrived! I mean, not that he should have had her here in the first place, but seriously? Parading his conquests like that? It's just tacky!"

"Who Chance chooses to… spend time with is none of our business, Ames," Ilsa sighed, wishing that Ames would just leave her to answer her email in peace. She'd just waded through a tediously long and detailed report from the Marshall Pucci Foundation, and she needed to formulate a reply whilst the details were fresh in her mind, otherwise she'd have to read the wretched thing again.

"I don't think it's serious though," Ames continued, oblivious to Ilsa's disinterest in the subject. "Winston says she's a former client and that she works abroad most of the time. One of those Doctors Without Borders. Apparently she just shows up every now and then. She probably didn't even know about you and Chance. He should've told her though."

"Ames, there is nothing to know about Chance and me!"

Ames frowned. "Really? I just figured you guys were just discreet about it."

"No! Chance is a free agent, free to spend time with whoever he wants!"

Ames paused for a moment, taking in this new piece of information. "But you guys had like… an understanding! It was only a matter of time, 'cause you two were made for each other. And then Chance had to ruin it by hooking up with this skanky doctor-"

"Ames, there really was nothing to ruin! I am not, nor have I ever been, romantically involved with Chance! Whilst I appreciate that you are trying to be supportive, it really isn't necessary. I'm perfectly fine."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Huh."

Ames wasn't convinced, and was deliberately rude to Chance, which only made it more difficult for Ilsa to ignore the situation. Winston was an absolute gentleman, discretely letting her know that he was there should she need to talk about it. Of course she denied there was anything to talk about and he let the matter drop, although she did notice him shooting some disapproving looks Chance's way.

It was only Guerrero who ignored the matter entirely. Ilsa had expected him to remind her of his offer of no-strings sex, but he didn't give her so much as a lascivious look. It was disappointing; the one time her battered ego really needed a boost, Guerrero chose not to provide it.

* * *

"You know you've really screwed thing up with Ilsa, bro," Guerrero said, passing Chance the gun oil. They were spending the afternoon in the garage performing a bit of basic maintenance on their extensive weaponry. It had been Guerrero's idea, figuring that it would get Chance out of the office, away from the dirty looks, and give them an opportunity to talk.

Chance sighed. "I know. But I think it's for the best."

"Letting her see you with Jessica was cold."

"I didn't exactly plan for that to happen," he winced, remembering the brief hurt look on Ilsa's face before she managed to force out a polite smile.

"No, but you could have made sure Jessica was gone before Ilsa showed up."

"I know."

They worked in silence for a while.

"It's not that I don't like Ilsa, I do, but it would never work."

Guerrero looked up and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Chance to continue.

"She's beautiful, intelligent and-"

"I'm well aware of Ilsa's good qualities, dude. Just skip to the part where you tell me why you don't want to be with her."

"She just doesn't get it."

"Get what?"

"Me, I guess. She has all these… expectations. She had this perfect marriage with a guy who was obviously the love of her life, and I can't - won't - compete with that. My life is messy and complicated and dangerous. I'm not the guy you can parade around at a society event, not unless it's for a job. I'd be bored out of my mind. I don't want to be house trained and domesticated. As much as I care for Ilsa, she is high-maintenance."

"True, but she is capable of compromise though. When you think back to what she was like when we first met her, she has chilled out a bit."

"Yeah, I know, but it's not enough. It's bad enough just having to coach her through the basics of a job, the idea of having to constantly explain myself to her with the added pressure of her feeling she had some kind of say over my life… I need to be free to do what's necessary without being weighed down by being responsible for someone else's happiness. I couldn't always be thinking how would Ilsa deal with it if things go wrong. You know as well as I do you have to leave your personal shit behind when you're on a job. It wouldn't be fair to Ilsa."

"She might surprise you, dude."

"Maybe, but why should she have to compromise? Why not just let her find a guy who can give her the kind of relationship she wants without having to deal with all my bullshit?"

"She was pretty set on being with you."

"I know, and maybe if circumstance were different…" Chance shrugged.

"It's sounds like you've really thought about this."

"I have."

"So why didn't you just talk to her? It would have been better than her walking in and seeing you with Jessica."

"I know, I know. I kept putting it off, and when she stopped trying to get me to go out on a date with her, I thought maybe I wouldn't actually have to say it. I did try to apologise, but she just shut me down, saying it was none of her business."

"Well, you've got to let her keep her pride."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I've got to ask, dude. Are you sure you don't want to patch things up? If there's any chance that things could work out between you, you need to tell her before it's too late. She's not going to wait around forever. Sooner or later she will get involved with someone else."

Chance shook his head. "No. I don't think it would be fair on either of us. I'd make her miserable with worry and she'd distract me. It wouldn't work."

Guerrero nodded. It seemed that Chance had made his final decision on the matter. He suspected that there was a lot that Chance wasn't saying, but was inclined to agree that a relationship with Ilsa was likely to be a dangerous distraction.

He knew that Ilsa would be emotionally vulnerable after seeing Chance with another woman, and although it would have been easy to take advantage of that, Guerrero didn't want her to take him up on his offer just to get back at Chance. He would only act if and when he knew Ilsa was thinking with a clear head.

* * *

Ilsa stuck it out at the office for a few days whist everyone tried to ignore the elephant in the room, before deciding enough was enough. She sat Ames down in her office and gave her a thorough dressing down for going out of her way to make life for Chance as difficult as possible, and told her that she could either start behaving in a more professional manner, or she could find another job. Ames took it with her usual lack of grace, rolling her eyes and mumbling "So much for sisterhood, Ilse, I was only trying to get your back."

She had an informal meeting with Winston, just to make sure things were ticking along nicely, and explained that she was going to take a week or two off for personal time. He seemed to think that maybe that was a good idea, and sat listening patiently as Ilsa gave him an exhaustive list of contact numbers where she could be reached should he need anything.

She hesitated over what to do about Chance, before deciding that she would leave him a note. After her third or fourth attempt she settled on something that seemed suitably upbeat and impersonal without sounding like she was running away.

 _Chance_ ,

 _I'll be_ o _ut of town for a week or so. Winston knows how to reach me. Please don't cause an international incident whilst I'm away._

_-Ilsa._

She stared at it for a moment before underlining the word 'please' a couple of times.

She left it on the refrigerator where everyone could see it, deciding that a sealed envelope with Chance's name on it would encourage too much speculation as to what she might have to say. She hadn't given much thought to what she might say to Guerrero, and the point seemed moot, as he seemed to have been avoiding her anyway. Nothing escaped Guerrero's attention though, and he was waiting for her by the elevator at she went to leave.

"You're taking a little vacation then?" He asked.

"Not as such, no. I just decided to take a little break and catch up with some old friends."

"In Milan."

Ilsa frowned. "Have you been checking up on me?"

Guerrero laughed. "No more than usual. Don't take it personally. Enjoy your shopping."

"Thank you. I will." She hesitated for a moment. "Isn't this when you usually proposition me?"

"No, this is when I tell you to enjoy your vacation. My offer still stands though. Think about it and let me know when you get back."

Isla sighed and stepped into the elevator. "Good bye, Mr Guerrero."

* * *

Milan turned out to be an excellent idea. She'd been a little apprehensive at first; she hadn't been back there since before Marshall had died, but as soon as she arrived she wondered why she had stayed away for so long. There were moments tinged with sadness, such as when she had dinner with friends at Marshall's favourite restaurant, or the awkward moment when the manager of a boutique remembered her from her last visit and gave her a warm welcome and asked after her handsome husband. On whole though, the trip was just what she needed: ten days of good friends, excellent food and some of the best shopping in the world. It had been a long time since she'd indulged herself like that, and although it was frivolous, it felt good to reconnect with some of her old friends.

After the decadence of Italy, she soothed her conscience somewhat by flying out to London for a few days to check in with the Marshall Pucci Foundation. Connie was thrilled to see her, and when Ilsa was able to slip away from the endless meetings that directors had scheduled as soon as they got wind of her being in the country, they spent some time catching up. Connie's taste for the finer things in life was still insatiable, and she insisted on taking Ilsa to the finest restaurants in London.

Ilsa might have stayed a little longer in London, if Connie hadn't kept pushing her to meet a friend of hers, a single, wealthy, male friend. She knew Connie's attempts at matchmaking were just as well-meaning as those of her other friends, but Ilsa was beginning to feel like a prize piece of livestock, trotted out to potential buyers. Having time away from San Francisco had allowed her to put the situation with Chance into perspective, and although it hadn't worked out the way she'd hoped, she was glad that she could at least move on. If only everyone would step back and let her.

* * *

Ilsa's note turned out to be eerily appropriate. The case the team worked in her absence had come dangerously close to causing an international incident when the man behind the attempt on their client's life tried to claim diplomatic immunity. Fortunately they managed to lure the culprit out of the Swedish embassy back onto US soil, and Guerrero manipulated some key bureaucrats into get the guy's diplomatic status revoked. It had still been a close call, and although Winston had done his best to smooth things over with the State Department, he'd only had limited success. Guerrero didn't see what all the fuss was about, and offered to make the problem disappear with a few carefully worded threats to the right people, but Winston was reluctant to let him blackmail their way out of it. He was relieved when Ilsa returned and offered to see if she could pull a few strings and get the State Department to back off.

It took an exhausting couple of days to set things right, but Ilsa was grateful for the distraction. Things were still a little strained whenever she found herself alone in a room with Chance, but she supposed that was to be expected. She took refuge in formality, maintaining more of a professional distance between herself and the team, and on the whole it seemed to work. She felt like she'd managed to hang on to her dignity, and dealing with the State Department reassured her that she still had a place and a purpose with the team.

Just when she felt that she was back on an even keel, Guerrero started up again with his campaign of not-so-subtle hints. She did her best to ignore him, although the renewed attention was very flattering. She never even considered taking his offer seriously, and she wasn't even that sure that Guerrero intended her to. She started to think of it more like a private joke between them, nothing more than a harmless piece of fun.

From time to time, in a moment of weakness, she would wonder what kind of lover Guerrero would be. She'd seen the strength and precision with which he used his hands, whether it was to strip down and clean a gun, or to delicately re-wire an electronic device, and she wondered if that intensity would translate to the bedroom. It was only idle curiosity, she had no intention of finding out, but whenever Guerrero caught her staring at his hands she would feel herself start to blush and leave the room before he had a chance to comment.

She hadn't given much thought to what kind of body lurked under his loose fitting shirts until she walked in to the kitchen one day to find Chance applying a dressing to a cut on Guerrero's back, a wound sustained when he fell onto broken glass during a fight. She was glad that they had their backs to the door and couldn't see her look of surprise. Like Chance, Guerrero's skin was covered in scars, but it was his broad shoulders, well-muscled arms and perfectly defined torso that made her catch her breath. He was leaner, more wiry than what she'd seen of Chance under similar circumstances, and the compact strength of his body seemed perfectly suited to the underlying air of menace that he projected. She had been confronted with the knowledge that she could, and did, find Guerrero sexually attractive, and suddenly his deliberate flirtation gained a whole new frisson.

She began to think about his offer seriously and she had to admit it did have some merit, once she got past the idea that it was  _Guerrero_ she was actually considering sleeping with. He was very clear as to what he was offering and what his motives were: sex for the sake of sex. He didn't want a relationship with her, and he wasn't trying to get access to her money or influence. He was, in his own way, trustworthy. He'd turned keeping secrets into an art form, and if he agreed to keep their… arrangement private, she had absolute faith that no one would ever know, unless she decided to tell them herself. All that remained was to decide whether or not she actually wanted to sleep with Guerrero.

Ilsa was so very tired of being alone, but she couldn't face the uncertainty of a new relationship, not so soon after what happened, or rather what didn't happen, with Chance. She needed some breathing space before she put her heart on the line like that again, but she'd been, to all intents and purposes, celibate for the last two years. Guerrero wasn't offering her what she'd had with Marshall, or what she'd hoped to have with Chance, but the idea of simple, uncomplicated sex was very tempting.

The whole stupid idea was beginning to give her a headache.


	3. Chapter 3

Ilsa had taken to enjoying a glass of red wine with her evening meal to help her unwind, and after a particularly stressful day, when Ames had managed to put a dent in Winston's car  _and_  break the coffee machine, one glass turned into two, and then three. She was a little bit tipsy when she went in search of her cell phone, but by no means drunk. They had only been small glasses after all, and the bottle was still nearly half full.

Maybe she was feeling fewer inhibitions, but she was confident that her judgment was by no means impaired. Besides, there was a fifty-fifty chance that Guerrero had only been joking, so there was an even chance that she'd only be calling his bluff…

_\- My place. One hour._

She hit send.

_Oh God! What if he wasn't bluffing?_

She paced the length of her living room, glancing over at her cell phone from time to time, not sure if she was hoping that it might ring or bleep, or whether it was better that it remained silent.

She glanced at her watch. It had been ten minutes since she'd sent the text message. Maybe Guerrero hadn't got it, or he had and had assumed it was a joke.

After twenty minutes, she stopped pacing and made herself a cup of chamomile tea.

Another ten minutes after that, she had finished the tea and was trying to concentrate on reading an article in a magazine. She gave up when she realised she was halfway through but had no idea what the subject of the piece was. She threw it at the coffee table in disgust, and was about to take her cup out to the kitchen, when her cell phone lit up and made the bleeping sound that indicated she had a new text message.

She took a deep breath and opened the message.

_\- On my way._

* * *

When Ilsa opened her front door, Guerrero could see right away that she was nervous.

"Hey."

"Um, hello Guerrero."

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

"Yes, of course. Do come in and, er, make yourself comfortable?"

He was pretty sure that wasn't supposed to sound like a question, but he nodded anyway and stepped inside her apartment. He'd been there before, and it was pretty much how he'd remembered it from his last visit. Minus the dead South American crime lord, of course.

He stood and waited for Ilsa to speak first, letting her make the first move to make sure there were no crossed wires regarding why exactly she had asked him to be there.

"I wasn't sure that you would actually come." Ilsa blushed as she noticed the double entendre in what she had just said.

"I told you the offer was always there, Ilsa. You only had to say the word."

"Yes, yes you did. But I don't quite know how to handle…" she made an awkward gesture with her hands as if she didn't quite know how to finish the sentence.

"A booty call?" Guerrero suggested, with a sly smile.

Ilsa blushed even more. "Yes. I suppose that's what it is."

"Stop over thinking it. It's just sex." He took a couple of steps towards to her, closing the distance between them.

"Yes but… it's been a while."

"Don't worry about it." He lifted a hand to her face, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting his fingers linger on her cheek. "I'm sure you still remember what goes where." She laughed nervously, but made no attempt to back away or move his hand. "And tonight I'm going to care very good care of you, Ilsa, if that's what you want…"

She let out a soft sigh and leaned into the hand held against her cheek. "Yes, that is what I want."

As he leaned in to kiss her, it struck him how many times she'd said the word yes since he'd arrived, and he wondered if he'd get a few more before the night was done. He meant to start slowly, to put her mind at ease and let her know that he would let her set the pace, but she took the tentative kiss and turned it into something more urgent, pressing herself against him and shoving his jacket off his shoulders. It was like a switch had flipped the moment she decided that she was going to go through with it, and she was hell bent on getting them both naked before she had a chance to reconsider.

He grabbed her wrists as she started to unbutton his shirt, and forced her to meet his eyes. "Ilsa, have you been drinking? I taste the alcohol on your breath."

"I had a couple of glasses of wine earlier."

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea. Not tonight, anyway."

"I'm not drunk, Guerrero. If that's what you think."

"Then why did you text me? Why tonight?"

"I don't know. Today was just one of those days when nothing seemed to go right. First Winston's car, then the coffee machine… it was just a day full of constant little irritations. Maybe I just wanted something simple and fun."

"And the wine had nothing to do with it?"

Ilsa smiled. "Alright, I'll admit that a glass of wine gave me the nerve to actually find out whether or not you were serious about your offer."

She'd never been a good liar, and Guerrero could see that her second explanation was the one closest to the truth. Maybe she wouldn't have sent the text if she hadn't had a drink, but now that he was there she was definitely interested, although her seduction technique was seriously rusty.

"Last chance to back out, Ilsa…"

"I'm sure. I do want this."

And she did. Guerrero could feel her rapid pulse beneath his fingers and there was no mistaking the dilation of her pupils, but he'd noticed something else too. She took a sharp intake of breath when he'd grabbed her wrists and her posture relaxed noticeably. She also made no effort to pull her arms free. Maybe it wasn't enough data to draw any solid conclusions but it was enough to make him watch for subtle signals he might otherwise have missed.

He stroked his thumbs across the insides of her wrists before bringing one to his mouth and kissing it gently. Ilsa bit her lip, looking as though she'd been about to say something until she lost her nerve.

"What?" Guerrero asked.

"I don't want… I mean it's been a while but… God! This is difficult! How is it that I can text you asking you to come over for… for sex but I can't…"

"Relax, Ilsa. Just say what you need to say. The whole point of me being here is to give you what you want , so just spit it out already."

Ilsa closed her eyes and nodded, taking a deep breath. "You don't need to be gentle with me. In fact I'd prefer it if you weren't."

"Okay," Guerrero said, trying not to smile as his suspicions were confirmed. "You wanna expand on that a little?"

Ilsa opened her eyes, obviously surprised that Guerrero was taking her seriously and not making a joke out of her request. "Um, not really no."

He let the silence build to see if it would make her uncomfortable enough to say more, but her mind was made up. He sighed, "Either we set limits now or you're going to need a safe word."

"Hopscotch," Ilsa blurted out without giving it a thought. "I mean, that's my safe word: hopscotch."

From the speed of her response Guerrero knew that she had used a safe word, even that particular safe word, before. He knew better than to comment on it though. He tightened his grip on her wrists and was about to pull her towards the bedroom when Ilsa suddenly said "Hopscotch!"

"What?"

"There' just one thing… I don't want to do this in the bedroom. It's the one place that's off limits."

"Anything else?"

"No, just… use a condom."

Guerrero gave her a withering look and she blushed, lowering her eyes in an obvious gesture of submission.

He knew that a simple recreational fuck had just got a whole lot more complicated. He couldn't let things get too far, not without setting some ground rules, but Ilsa had clearly played this game before and was slipping into the headspace that meant the decision making was up to him now. Negotiations as to how far was too far would have to wait until he could be sure she wouldn't just agree to anything he suggested. Assuming of course that she would want there to be a next time…

A flicker of what other people might refer to as his conscience gave him a moment's hesitation before being crushed by the cumulative effect of the weeks and months of waiting for Ilsa to crack. He wanted this almost as badly as she did, and if she wanted it a little rough… well, he could work with that. He'd need to be careful, not just because she was technically his boss but because he knew from experience how fine the line he'd need to walk between too far and not far enough could be.

Guerrero shoved her away from him, roughly enough that she staggered backwards into the antique dining table behind her. "Take off your shirt," he ordered.

Ilsa gave him an almost grateful look as her fingers fumbled at the buttons of her blouse in her haste to obey.

"Hurry up!" he said, knowing that she was already going as fast as she could and that snapping at her would only make her more flustered. "Lose the bra too."

Despite the fact that a minute ago she could barely even bring herself to talk about what they were about to do, she didn't hesitate. He could see that as long as he was the aggressor, Ilsa was happy and willing to make herself vulnerable.

He let her just stand there with her eyes downcast for a minute, feeling the weight of his gaze as he took in the sight of her exposed breasts, nipples already hardening with the anticipation of his touch. He stepped forward and dragged one finger nail lightly down the soft, tanned column of her neck, tracing along her collar bone and then down to flick across a taut nipple. Ilsa inhaled sharply but held herself immobile, waiting for Guerrero's instructions.

"You kept me waiting, Ilsa. I don't like to be kept waiting." He flicked his nail across her other nipple, a little harder this time and she closed her eyes and gave a soft little sigh. "Maybe I should make you beg," he said, running a fingertip across the skin just above the waistband of her pants, raising goosebumps on her trembling flesh. "It wouldn't take much, would it?"

"No," she murmured.

He sighed. "No challenge there then. Pity."

Ilsa's eyes were still closed but she felt his breath, a warm disturbance in the air, just before his lips closed on her breast, sucking at the sensitive peak and swiping it with his tongue before teasing it with his teeth. She moaned at the sweet sting, grasping on the table behind her for support as his fingers pinched and tugged at her other nipple.

"Open your eyes, Ilsa."

She did, her breath catching a little when she saw the predatory look on Guerrero's face as he pushed the button at the waist of her pants through the hole, deliberately pulling at the cloth so that the seam running between her legs pressed into her moist heat. He slipped his hands inside her pants, cupping and squeezing her buttocks through the lace of her underwear, pressing himself against her so she could feel the hard ridge of his erection. She squirmed a little but kept her hands on the table, as Guerrero knew she would unless he instructed her to do otherwise.

"God, the things I could do to you," he murmured, "the things I could make you do…"

Ilsa didn't reply but rested her head against his shoulder. He pressed his face against her hair, inhaling her scent and allowing himself to think about how differently he'd expected this to go, but he snapped out of his revelry when he felt Ilsa tense up, reminding him that she wasn't looking for him to be gentle or attentive. He pulled his hands free, using one to grab a handful of her hair, pulling it back until she arched against him whilst he slowly unzipped her pants.

"You'd enjoy too, wouldn't you? Playing the whore for me."

"Please, Guerrero…" Her voice was breathless and shaky but there was no fear in her eyes, only a plea to give her what she'd asked of him.

He dragged a fingernail along the seam of her pants, relishing the way she shivered as it passed over her swollen clit. He could feel how turned on she was, the heat and moisture between her legs beginning to seep through the fine lace underwear and into the thin cotton of her pants. He grabbed the cloth at her hip, pulling it taut until she whimpered at the pressure on her swollen sex before yanking her away from the table, using the hand still caught in her hair as leverage to turn her around and send her sprawling face down back onto the table.

Ilsa had instinctively put her hands out to break her fall, so Guerrero released her hair and made her straighten her arms, palms flat against the table over her head.

"Keep them there," he said in a low growl as he as stripped away his own shirt and undershirt, letting them fall carelessly onto the floor. Ilsa tried to turn her head to watch him but it was impossible without moving her arms from their outstretched position and he smiled at the disgruntled little sound she made when she realised this.

His jeans were uncomfortably restrictive now, so he popped open the button to relieve some of the pressure and palmed his cock slowly through the denim as he waited to see if Ilsa would adhere to his instructions. With the side of her face pressed against the highly polished surface of the table, the sound of her breathing seemed to be amplified, coming in short, ragged gasps as she obediently waited for his next move.

He stepped up behind her, her breathing quickening even more as he dragged his blunt fingernails down her back until his hands settled on her hips. He paused, waiting for her breathing to even out a little before he jerked her pants down roughly, dropping to one knee and extracting one foot then the other from rumpled cloth at her ankles. He ran his hands up the insides of her legs, stopping at her knees and pushing them apart. He could feel the trembling in her legs beneath his palms but she held the position, even when a licked a long slow stripe along the inside of her thigh.

His hands smoothed upwards, stroking and squeezing at her ass through her lace panties as he started nipping at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs with his teeth. Ilsa moaned as the teasing little bites got more insistent, Guerrero sucking her flesh into his mouth and worrying at it with his teeth. He hadn't intended to anything that would leave a mark but Ilsa's moans grew louder, urging him on. He slid his thumb down, ghosting over the lace veiling her ass to press against her clit. She whimpered and tried to grind against the teasing pressure between her legs, but she didn't cry out until Guerrero bit her again, hard enough that she would carry a bruise on her thigh for days to come.

Had she not told him that she didn't want him to be gentle, Guerrero would have happily drawn out the foreplay, bringing her off against his fingers and tongue before they got to the main event, but he could sense that she was impatient and ready now. He got back to his feet and placed the condom and the tube of lubricant on the table where she could see it.

"I want to hear you say it, Ilsa," he said, pushing his jeans down and taking his swollen cock in hand, stroking it slowly, taking care to stand where she could see him.

Her eyes were wide and slightly glazed as she watched him. She licked her lips and forced herself with obvious reluctance to meet his gaze. "I want…" Her voice seemed to fail her, so she took a deep shuddering breath and tried again. "I want you to fuck me, Guerrero. I want you to fuck me so hard that I feel it tomorrow when I walk into the office."

Guerrero cocked an eyebrow in mild surprise at the specificity of her request, then smirked and reached for the condom. "You're the boss."

He rolled the condom on and stood behind her again, tracing his finger over the edge of the lace where it lay against the smooth, perfect swell of her ass. Ilsa squirmed as he brushed against a particularly ticklish spot. "Please, Guerrero! Just-" She bit the words off mid-sentence as she heard the unmistakable sound of a switchblade being flicked open.

Guerrero chuckled as she flinched at the sound. "Relax. This is just faster." She sighed at he cut away her panties and placed the knife on the table, out of her reach but within her line of sight. "Just a little visual reminder for you," he explained, "so you don't forget who it is fucking you."

She nodded like she understood but she still looked a little bewildered by it. He'd probably have to explain himself later, but that was good. If she was confused by it she would remember it.

He slid his fingers between her legs and found that she was just as wet at he'd expected. She whined a little at his touch and tried to spread her legs a little further apart.

With one hand gripping her hip, he guided himself in, sinking his cock deep inside her with one slow thrust. Ilsa gave a deep moan that sounded as if it has as much to do with relief as arousal, and Guerrero began to thrust, deep and hard, but slowly so he could make it last.

"Is this what you were waiting for, Ilsa?" he asked. "Is this what you needed?"

"Yes!" she moaned. "Oh God, yes!"

"And all you had to do was ask, but you kept me waiting.."

He thrust a little faster and Ilsa gasped, murmuring "yes… like that…God! …don't stop…"

She was close and he knew it, so he pulled out abruptly, leaving her sobbing on the table.

"You shouldn't have made me wait, Ilsa," he smirked, just to see the bereft look on her face. "I think that calls for a little punishment, don't you?"

"Please, Guerrero! Please don't stop now!"

He laughed, stroking his hand over her buttocks. "I always knew there was a luscious ass hiding beneath those prim little skirts."

"Guerrero, please!" she whined, wriggling beneath his hands but still keeping her own pressed the table as per his earlier instructions.

"I think it deserves a little attention."

Before Ilsa could reply, he raised his hand and brought it down in a stinging blow to her ass. Ilsa's face flushed as fast as her stinging cheeks, and Guerrero did it again and again. At first she bit her lip and tried to endure it in silence, but Guerrero wasn't fooled. He'd seen and felt the way she'd reacted to a little pain earlier when he'd bit her, so he kept going until Ilsa gave it up and cried out.

"You bastard! How dare you-"

"You have a safe word, Ilsa. Feel free to use it anytime." He waited for a moment, stroking his fingers lazily between her legs but she closed her eyes and said nothing. "Thought so."

He spread her glowing cheeks and stroked his finger gently across the tight ring of muscle, pleasantly surprised when she groaned and bucked, seeking more contact. He considered it for a moment before deciding that it would be going too far without Ilsa's specific consent. Instead he checked the integrity of the condom and found it was holding up just fine. He placed one hand on the small of her back and pushed the head of his cock back into her slick heat, rocking his slowly hips slowly, holding back from giving her much more than a taste of what she'd had before he'd spanked her.

She made urgent little pleading noises and Guerrero knew that he could easily make her beg, but he took pity on her. He snapped his hips forward, sinking his full length inside her and Ilsa groaned a triumphant little "Yes!"

He set a punishing rhythm, thrusting hard and fast enough to push Ilsa tumbling into her orgasm, but not so fast that he couldn't hold back his own.

"Oh God! Don'tstopdon'tstoppleasedon'tstop!"

Guerrero had no intention of stopping, not until he'd made good on her request to make sure she felt it when she walked into the office tomorrow. With that in mind, he slapped her butt again and was rewarded by Ilsa clenching down on his dick and letting out a mewling cry that nearly made him lose the fight to hold back his own climax.

"Fuck!" he cursed, forcing himself to slow down.

"Don't stop!" Ilsa pleaded. "Do that again!"

He wasn't sure he could, not without losing it, but he did it anyway. He was ready for her reaction this time, and that gave him enough of an advantage to maintain control for a while. Ilsa was trying to push back to meet his thrusts but she had limited range of movement whilst she was still lying sprawled across the table, so Guerrero wrapped his arms around her, lifting her away from the table so that she could at least support herself on her hands.

Everything kicked up a gear and Guerrero knew he wasn't going to last much longer as Ilsa's body began clenching around him again and her cries rose in pitch until she was just panting his name. He let the last vestiges of self-control slip away and fucked her hard and fast, pounding into her until he crested the wave and rode out the orgasm surging through him and into Ilsa.

* * *

She folded her arms under her head and closed her eyes, trying to hold on hold on to the feelings of relief and physical joy before they slipped away and she had to deal with the real world. Her body was alive, nerve endings singing in a way that they hadn't done in years but she knew it wouldn't last; it never did. She felt the emptiness start to creep in as soon as Guerrero recovered his senses and withdrew from her body, and she let out a deep sigh.

She was unsure how she felt about what they'd just done. The memory of how good it felt still clung to her body, still too fresh and bright to allow for any regret, but she knew as it faded the doubt would creep in and she'd have to face the reality that Guerrero had bent her over her dining table and fucked her. And that she came. Twice, or was it three times? None too quietly either.

She heard the snap as Guerrero pulled off the condom and disposed of it, before zipping up his fly. She opened her eyes, thinking that she might have a better idea how to handle things if she could make herself look him in the eye before he left, but was distracted when the knife on the table caught her attention.

"Why did you put that there?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He didn't reply right away, so she pushed herself up off the table and turned to face him.

He handed her her blouse and she put it on, glad to have something to at least partially shield her nudity from his gaze.

"Because it was something he wouldn't do."

She frowned, trying to make sense of what he'd said. "You mean Chance?" He nodded. "You put it there to remind me that I was with you, not him?"

Guerrero picked up his clothes from the floor and pulled on his undershirt. "I've got my pride, same as any other guy."

It hadn't occurred to her that he might think she'd fantasize about Chance whilst she was with him, and she found the idea quite distasteful. She wasn't sure how she could put it into words without making it sound like she was reading more into the situation than either of them intended, so decided not to try.

"What happens now?" she asked.

He put his jacket on over his shirt and smiled. "I go home, you finish your wine, and when we see each other at work tomorrow we both pretend that this never happened."

She nodded. "Yes, of course."  _He made it sound so simple…_

He walked to the front door and stopped, but didn't turn around. "The offer still stands, by the way. But if you want to do this again, we need to set some boundaries first. Think about it."

And then he was gone. He left the knife: a reminder.


	4. Chapter 4

Ilsa took Guerrero's advice and finished the wine before crawling into bed. She felt a little uneasy about the fact that the smell of sex and sweat still clung to her skin, but she was too tired to do anything about it. If sleeping in what was once her marital bed whilst she still bore the scent of another man was disrespectful to Marshall's memory, it was nothing compared to what she'd done with Guerrero in the first place. She was too exhausted, too emotionally and physically drained to do anything to even think about it, so she finished the bottle of wine and fell into a dreamless sleep.

She woke at four am with a full bladder and pounding headache, deciding that perhaps the wine had not been such a good idea after all. She avoided looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, certain that she would not like what she saw, and went out to the kitchen to get herself a cool drink of water.

She felt… soiled was probably the best word to describe it. It had nothing to do with Guerrero specifically, rather that she'd indulged in behaviour that was difficult to reconcile with her image as Ilsa Pucci, widow of Marshall Pucci, guardian of her late husband's legacy. It felt as though the depravity of what she had done was written all over her for anyone to read and judge.

It didn't matter that it wasn't anything she'd done, and enjoyed, before; but there was a world of difference in her mind between games played between a husband and wife who were very much in love and – what had Guerrero called it? Oh yes, a booty call. If it wasn't bad enough that she'd summoned him to her home, her  _bloody home_ , to service her like a sex-crazed housewife from a bad pornographic movie, she also made him privy to her darker desires, things that she'd only ever shared with Marshall.

She hadn't intended to; she'd only told him that he needn't be gentle with her because she couldn't bear the thought of being handled like a precious, cherished lover, lavished with compliments and endearments that were neither wanted nor deserved, but she had overlooked that it was Guerrero she was dealing with. She had forgotten that beneath the scruffy appearance and the casual threat of violence was a razor sharp mind that didn't miss a damn thing. He lived and breathed other people's secrets and it took nothing to reveal hers, no manipulation, no interrogation, she'd unwittingly laid it all out for him to see. She doubted that he would try to use that information against her; after all he potentially had something to lose should Chance find out what he'd been up to.

Resigned to the fact that she was unlikely to be able to go back to sleep, Ilsa decided to take a much needed shower. She ran the water as hot as she could bear it before stripping off her robe and stepping inside, letting the water pound down on her aching shoulders. It was only after she'd scrubbed her face clean and washed her hair that she looked down and saw a faint string of bruises running up the inside of her thigh, culminating in a much larger, darker bruise that bore the shape of teeth marks.

It suddenly hit her that she was going to have to face Guerrero at the office. She was going to have to look him in the eye, in front of Winston and Ames and…oh God…  _Chance_ , and behave as if nothing had happened. And all the time Guerrero would be able to look her and know what they did. No one would see the bruises beneath her clothes, but Guerrero would now they were there…

_I want you to fuck me, Guerrero. I want you to fuck me so hard that I feel it tomorrow when I walk into the office._

Her thighs were not the only thing that felt tender and bruised, but he'd given her exactly what she'd asked for and now she was just going to have to live with it.

She dressed quickly in the first thing that came to hand, the jogging pants she normally wore to the gym and a soft, over-sized sweater. It was still far too early to get ready for the office but there were a dozen or so emails waiting for her response that would fill the time. She made a pot of coffee and wandered into the living room in search of her laptop, stopping dead when her gaze fell on the two objects on the antique dining table.

Guerrero's knife was just as he'd left it. She felt a moment of unexpected sadness for Guerrero as she remembered its purpose. He'd known he was a substitute for someone else and he'd assumed that someone was Chance. She'd certainly pined over him for long enough, but she'd made her peace with the fact that things were going nowhere between them. And yet the idea of Guerrero being a substitute for Marshall didn't sit right with her either because her husband wasn't someone whose absence could be so easily filled.

She picked up the knife, examining it for a moment before sliding the blade back into the handle. Perhaps the most honest assessment of what she'd wanted from Guerrero was for him to take role of an anonymous lover who would meet her physical needs with no emotional involvement. And yet with that knife he'd managed to intrude in a way that made it impossible to treat anything about their encounter as anonymous. It was troubling.

The second object on the table was the forgotten tube of lubricant. If anyone but Guerrero had left it there she would have assumed that it was just an oversight, but everything that man did was deliberate. She shivered as she remembered the way he had spread her cheeks apart, his fingers brushing teasingly against her, making her buck towards them. She had almost used her safe word then, and was only held back by the suspicion that the word would somehow be twisted into what she really meant which was  _yes, touch me there, I want to feel you there…_

But then his fingers were gone, she'd felt a steadying hand on her back and he was pushing into her again, and the moment slipped away. Until now. The tube of lubricant was lying on her dining table, a promise of things to come, if only she asked him for what she still wanted.

_The offer still stands, by the way. But if you want to do this again, we need to set some boundaries first. Think about it._

She shook her head and walked out to the kitchen, tossing the knife and the lubricant into a drawer and slamming it shut. She couldn't afford to give the matter any further thought. She stripped and remade the bed with clean sheets.

* * *

Guerrero wouldn't have been surprised if Ilsa had decided to avoid the office for a day or two, but she walked in at the usual time, her head held high greeting him with a crisp "Good morning, Mr Guerrero."

He smiled and replied, "Morning boss." It may have been wishful thinking but he thought he saw her hand tremble just a little as she reached out to open the door to her office. He turned away as she dropped her handbag and pulled out her chair, unsure if her composure would crack if she saw him watching her. She had to be a bit sore after last night, but if either of them acknowledged that with so much as a look it would bring something best left behind closed doors into the workplace where the others might pick up on it.

The team had just closed a case and had yet to take on a new one so the office was quiet. Winston was out having breakfast with one of his cop buddies, hoping to get a client referral, and there was no sign of Ames yet. Guerrero figured he might as well check in with Chance as he had some time to kill, and he found him in the kitchen staring despondently at the broken coffee maker.

"Hey dude."

As Chance turned to face him Guerrero braced himself for an attack of conscience but none came. Intellectually he didn't have a problem with what he and Ilsa had gotten up to last night but he'd learned to accept that anything involving Chance could be an emotional wildcard. Guerrero didn't generally dwell on feelings of guilt or remorse, but when he did it was in connection to failing Chance in some way, but he'd done his best to clarify Chance's feelings towards Ilsa and that, apparently, was enough.

"I hope you weren't expecting coffee," Chance said, "because this thing is definitely fucked."

"You know me, bro. I'm happy with tea."

Chance scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed. "Yeah, well I really need a caffeine fix this morning."

"I got some time. I guess I could pick up a new one," Guerrero said.

"No need," Ilsa said, standing in the doorway behind him. "I've already ordered a replacement and it will be here shortly."

Guerrero hadn't heard her approach and only stubbornness and self-discipline prevented him from showing any sign of surprise. He turned to face her, one eyebrow cocked as he took in her defensive body language, her arms folded primly across her chest and her chin tilted up defiantly.

"Thanks Ilsa," Chance said, "but I had a late night last night and I need coffee  _now_."

Ilsa's eyes turned towards Chance for a moment before flicking back to stare at Guerrero, and it dawned on him that she was genuinely worried that he was going to say something to Chance.

Maybe it was cruel but Guerrero couldn't help himself. "Put some shoes on, buddy, and I'll shout you an espresso or two at that gourmet coffee shop on sixth. They have killer pastries there too."

Chance visibly perked up at the promise of carbs and caffeine, and missed the murderous look that Ilsa gave Guerrero. "Awesome. Just give me a minute."

As he bounded up the stairs in search of footwear Guerrero smirked. "Relax, Ilsa. I'm not gonna tell him. And you can't freak out every time I speak to him."

"I'm not freaking out!" she hissed.

"So stop checking up on me. This arrangement of ours isn't going to work unless you trust me."

"There is no arrangement! Last night was a one-off and-" She stopped abruptly as she heard Chance coming down the stairs.

"Ready?" he called out.

"Yeah, right behind you." Guerrero smiled at Ilsa. "I'd ask you to join us but I guess someone has to stay behind and sign for the new coffee machine."

* * *

Ilsa's concerns about being able to face Chance after sleeping with Guerrero proved to be unfounded. Whenever there was even a flutter of guilt she remembered the doctor he'd spent the weekend with and felt vindicated. However, there was little she could do to diffuse the knot of tension in her gut whenever she saw the two men together, and it took her a moment to pinpoint what exactly she was scared of if Guerrero told Chance about their assignation. That Guerrero had seen a part of herself that she didn't like to acknowledge, even to herself, was terrifying enough and if Chance found out Ilsa knew that she would never be able to look him in the eye again, but it was more than that. When she saw the two men together it hit her just how precarious her position in their lives was. Chance and Guerrero's friendship was a bond that had survived everything their dangerous and complicated lives had thrown at it, and it was certain to survive the fallout even if Chance did find out. Even if he knew every sordid little detail, she was the one with everything to lose. They had managed before she came along, and if she lost their trust and respect she didn't doubt that they'd get by without her again.

She'd been a fool to think that she'd ever had any leverage over Guerrero. He held all the cards and he always had.

* * *

Guerrero had taken apart every aspect of Marshall Pucci's life after he stumbled across the photo of his meeting with Julia at the Lamont Hotel when working the Anderson case. He'd examined Marshall's financial records carefully, looking for a reason as to why a Russian spy network would have a file on him in their database but found nothing that was cause for concern. What he did find, however, was an account in the name Mr M Ross complete with credit history. He wasn't surprised to find that Marshall had an active alias at the time of his death; it wasn't unusual for a man as rich and influential as he was to want a little anonymity in his private life, and Guerrero soon traced all the charges on Mr M Ross' credit card to gifts for Ilsa. He didn't make the connection between Mr Ross and Lamont Hotel because the room was just one of number retained by the Marshall Pucci Foundation. He'd kicked himself for missing it when Chance told him that Marshall had hidden the evidence that led to his death in the hotel room but, as Chance pointed out, without Ilsa's letter no one would have known.

The room at the Lamont was the Pucci's private escape from their everyday lives, and that thought had been playing on Guerrero's mind in the days since Ilsa had taken him up on his offer of no strings sex. Considering her history of poor performances in the field, Guerrero was fairly impressed with Ilsa's ability to compartmentalise. Aside from the brief conversation the morning after, she neither did nor said anything that would even hint at what had happened between them, and that got him thinking about Ilsa's sex life with Marshall. Once a month they pretended to be strangers so that Marshall could hit on his own wife in a bar, but what if the fantasy didn't stop there?

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Ilsa idolised Marshall but obviously had a taste for the kinky stuff, so perhaps the Mr Ross persona was a way for them to indulge in practices that were at odds with their public image of wedded bliss. Perhaps Ilsa had always kept that aspect of her sexuality locked away, which was why she was so convincing in pretending that nothing had happened between them, it was habit.

Guerrero decided to look deeper into the transactions on the Ross account, searching for anything that might support his theory. Purchases from the same online store came up time and again, but they weren't itemised. He'd checked out the site before and found nothing more exotic than a selection of overpriced lingerie, classy but not anything that any man with money to burn wouldn't buy his wife or mistress. This time he tried hacking into Mr Ross' order history and was surprised at the sophistication of the security measures the site employed. Once he was in, a new menu was revealed labelled "Platinum Members", and when he opened it he found the confirmation he was looking for.

He spent a little time scrolling through the hidden site-within-a-site that catered for pretty much every kink he'd ever heard of, and a few he hadn't. There were things he'd never seen outside of some very specialised stores in Amsterdam, but the items on sale on the site were not cheap European off the shelf products. Almost everything was custom made to order from luxury materials and the prices reflected that. Intrigued, Guerrero pulled up Mr Ross' purchase history and several things became immediately apparent: Ilsa was definitely the submissive in the relationship, Marshall was prepared to spend a lot of money to fulfil their fantasies, and they'd gone a hell of lot further than just spanking.

Guerrero logged out of the site and closed his laptop, relieved that he'd done his snooping in the privacy of his own apartment. It was all too easy to imagine how Ilsa would look bound and gagged in the hand-stitched Italian leather restraints he'd just been looking at, and that mental image had him rock hard. He pushed the computer from his lap onto the empty seat beside him on the couch and undid his jeans to relieve the pressure on his cock, a little surprised at the intensity of his body's reaction. It wasn't like he hadn't dabbled with bondage before, he'd been with some seriously freaky women in his time, but this was different. This was Ilsa, technically his boss, and that made it exponentially hotter.

_This could be a problem_ , he thought, palming his erection.  _This isn't no-strings sex. This is me wanting Ilsa specifically._

It wasn't what either of them had signed up for.

He slid his hand lower, cupping his balls and squeezing them gently between his fingers.

_This has to stay a one-off. Just a lapse in judgement, on both parts…_

Ilsa hadn't given him any indication that she wanted a repeat performance. Even if they did it again, he suspected that they'd both want to push it further, and that would mean setting boundaries and limits. The spontaneity would be gone, so where was the fun in that?

Still lightly squeezing and tugging at his balls with one hand, he took his cock in the other, working it slowly, letting the sensation build gradually.

_But Ilsa Pucci, naked, bound and so fucking wet she'd let me do anything, that she'd fucking beg for it…_

But he'd need her trust for that, and it would be a responsibility. He knew how the dynamics of a dominant/submissive relationship worked, that submission wasn't quite the simple surrender it appeared to be. And that was the problem; it would mean reaching an agreement, a level of understanding between them. A goddamn  _relationship_ , albeit primarily a sexual one.

He closed his eyes and let his head tip back as his hand tightened on his cock, jerking faster and harder.

_Fuck, maybe it would be worth it. And no one would know…_

He was close, the tension building in his body, hot and urgent, making him break out in a sweat as he fought for one ragged breath after another. Ilsa's voice was on a loop in his head … _fuck me, Guerrero… I want you to fuck me, Guerrero_ … and then he was coming, surge after surge until he was wiped out, shaking and twitching through the aftershocks.

It was a while before he could pull himself together enough to get cleaned up. He couldn't even remember the last time jerking off had been that intense, leaving him feeling so utterly wrecked.

_Fuck, for a minute there I was actually considering it…_

Getting involved like that was a phenomenally bad idea and he knew it. The danger of the mental component tipping over into an emotional attachment was too big a risk to take. The last person Ilsa had had a submissive relationship with had been her husband, the love of her life, and Guerrero wasn't prepared to take on all the emotional baggage that she was still carrying. Crazy-hot-bondage sex was tempting, but not at that price.


	5. Chapter 5

As her bruises faded Ilsa began to put her evening with Guerrero behind her, forcing it to recede into a distant memory. It wasn't that easy at first, not when it was still fresh in her mind: the sharp sting of his bare hand against her flesh, the feeling of completion as his cock breached her body, and the blissful surrender to someone stronger and harder than her.

At first she spent her days worrying about the team finding out, and her nights trying to relive the that evening in her fantasies as she had hoped it would be, with an anonymous lover taking Guerrero's place, but she could never quite block him out. She knew it had been Guerrero, and she reluctantly began to consider the disturbing possibility that she had liked that it was him. She knew that obsessing about it, even as a purely masturbatory fantasy, was unhealthy and it was making her feel constantly on-edge. She decided to let the bruises on her thighs count down the time she allowed herself to remember; once they were gone she would have no excuse to keep thinking about what happened between them.

The trick seemed to work, and her nervousness around Guerrero and the rest of the team faded back to a manageable level, more to do with the innate risks their work involved than the fear that her very personal secret would become common knowledge. Guerrero behaved himself admirably after she told him that it had been a one-off, refraining from dropping hints about his offer still being open. If it wasn't for the very occasional speculative glance he cast her way, it was almost if it had never happened.

She resolved to start dating again, just to dip a toe back in the water. She'd felt obliged to go on a few dates since Marshall died, mostly blind dates that had been sprung on her at the last minute, and of course there was the awkward evening she spent in the company of Captain Harmen after the whole debacle surrounding Susan's rescue. The idea of going on a date with an attractive and attentive man was rather appealing, and the odds of her enjoying herself surely had to be improved if she chose her companion herself.

Ilsa didn't have to wait long before she met a suitable candidate.

* * *

Dr Simon Hawthorne-Daniels was an academic who specialised in pre-Christian artefacts who found himself in deep trouble with the Russian Mafia. A simple job involving authenticating several pieces of silver jewellery, purported to be of Viking origin, led to him being forced into fronting a shady operation selling counterfeit artefacts to some of the world's most influential collectors. So far nobody suspected that the items they had been sold were anything but genuine, but it was only a matter of time.

"I had no choice but to go along with it," he explained. "They made it perfectly clear I was under constant surveillance, and any attempt to contact the authorities would result in my execution. The only reason I could get away with coming here today was due to the fact that, as a major donor to the museum's acquisitions fund, Mrs Pucci is someone I might have a valid reason to visit in a purely business capacity."

"Of course, Dr Hawthorne-Daniels," Ilsa said with a sympathetic smile. "We understand what a difficult position you find yourself in, and we will endeavour to resolve the issue with your good name and reputation intact."

"Please, Mrs Pucci, call me Simon."

"Simon," she repeated with a much more genuine smile, patting his hand where it lay tightly gripping his knee.

Winston caught the warm look that passed between Ilsa and the client, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Ilsa certainly seemed taken with him, and he supposed he could see why. Simon wasn't exactly the stereotype of a dry academic that he'd pictured when he first heard his name. He was probably only in his early forties, there was a touch of grey at his temples in his otherwise dark hair, but to Winston's eyes he was a bit of an aging pretty-boy with slightly delicate looking features. He was, however, about as different from Chance as it was possible to get, a fact accentuated by the immaculate designer suit he was wearing.

Winston glanced at Chance, who seemed to be oblivious of the subtle flirting taking place right under his nose. He was wearing a faded old Henley that he'd had for years with a pair of jeans that were fraying around the edges with wear.

 _Typical,_ Winston thought. _You get him in an Armani suit and it'll be blood stained rags in hours, but he'll still be wearing that faded old t-shirt for another ten years. At least it doesn't have noodles stuck to it._

"I'm more concerned about what kind of timetable we're working to here," Chance said.

"The longer those fake antiques are in circulation, the more likely it is someone's gonna notice," Winston added, trying to get his thoughts back on to a business footing.

"Exactly. And when that happens the guys behind this scheme are gonna need to ensure you keep your mouth shut."

There was a moment of silence. No one needed to spell out what Chance meant.

"The way I see it, you have two problems," he said, counting them off on his fingers, "the threat to your life, and the fakes that are in circulation with your stamp of approval all over them. Fortunately we have just the people with the expertise to deal with both."

"Guerrero," Winston said, and at the same moment Ilsa said: "Ames."

Chance smiled. "Exactly."

* * *

Ilsa had reservations about sending Ames on not one but two jewellery heists, but she had to agree that stealing the fakes was the best way to ensure that the collectors were not out of pocket without risking Simon's good name. The two broaches that had already been delivered to the buyers were already insured, thanks to the assessors deferring to Simon's superior knowledge regarding their history, but they were likely to draw attention from the academic community. The plan was for Ames to steal them before any of Simon's peers managed to study them closely. There were several more items currently in transit, but they would be easier to deal with, thanks to Winston's contacts in Customs; it was simply a case of redirecting their route to make sure they passed through the right hands.

Winston would be running technical support, watching Ames with an eagle eye, so she was unlikely to get the chance to go off-script. That didn't stop Ilsa from having a quiet word with him to make sure that he searched the reformed thief for any miscellaneous items that might 'accidentally' end up in her possession.

In the meantime it was Ilsa's job to be seen about town with the client, visiting various museums and high profile private collectors whilst Chance and Guerrero figured out who was watching them and how. Simon hid his nerves well, and was utterly charming and professional; Ilsa could see why people were inclined to trust him. She found herself genuinely fascinated by his extensive knowledge of his field, and enjoyed the private commentary he provided as he picked out the most interesting pieces to show her. She was a little disappointed when it took Chance and Guerrero less than a day to uncover who was calling the shots and work out how to neutralise them.

"It's the Petrovs," Chance grinned.

"More specifically, Andrey Petrov," Guerrero added.

"And that's good news?" Ilsa asked, a little taken aback by their unexpected good humour.

"That's great news," Chance explained, "Andrey Petrov is of Russian descent but he's got no real ties with the mob. I'm not saying he's the kind of guy you'd normally want to mess with, but his operation is essentially just him and his brother Nikolai. He's seriously over-reached with this antiquities scam."

"So Simon wasn't being watched? He's safe?"

"No, Petrov hired a crew. They've been watching his every move and reporting it back."

"Then why are you-"

"Because, Ilsa, he hired local punks, guys with records and reputations," Guerrero interrupted. "They're only as loyal as he paid them to be, and whilst cash is a great motivator, self-preservation is a better one."

"So you're what, going to threaten them?" Ilsa asked. "How many people are we talking about here?"

"Guerrero doesn't need to threaten them, Ilsa. Just sorta let it be known that it would be unwise for anyone to work with the Petrovs."

"And they'll back off? Just like that?"

"I know these guys," Guerrero said. "I know where the bodies are buried."

Ilsa looked horrified.

"Figuratively speaking, right?" Chance added, giving Guerrero a not-so-subtle nudge.

"Sure. Okay," Guerrero said rather unconvincingly.

Ilsa decided that this was probably one of those things that she'd rather not examine too closely, or preferably at all.

"What about Andrey Petrov and his brother?"

"Nikolai isn't going to be much of a problem," Chance said. "He's strictly small time, and he already has a bunch of warrants out on him for credit card fraud. All we need to do is give the cops a tip off as to his whereabouts and he'll be out of the picture for the next five to ten."

"And Andrey?"

"He's trodden on a few toes by trying to cash in on his non-existent mob connections," Guerrero said with a chilling half smile. "If we let the big boys know what he's been up to, the problem should resolve itself."

Ilsa frowned. "I'm not sure I can really condone that course of action, Mr Guerrero. It sounds like a death sentence to me."

"Told you she wouldn't go for it," Chance said.

Guerrero shrugged.

"Perhaps if you were to warn Mr Petrov that it would be in his best interests to disappear before news of his indiscretions reach the wrong ears?"

"Okay, I guess we could dial it back to a warning." Guerrero said.

"Thank you."

Chance waited until Ilsa was safely out of earshot before turning to Guerrero and asking him: "So how much warning are you going to give him?"

"'Bout an hour. An hour and a half if traffic's bad."

"Sounds fair."

* * *

Dr Simon Hawthorne-Daniels wasn't bothered by the Petrovs again, and by the end of the week Winston and Ames returned with the recovered fakes and, to Ilsa's relief, only the recovered fakes.

"I'm just saying he had six of them. Six! He wouldn't have missed one."

"For the last time, Ames, they were fifteen-hundred year old, hand-carved jade horses!" Winston groaned. "Do you have even the faintest idea what one of those 'cute little ponies' is worth?"

"Something that pretty shouldn't be wasted on someone who just hoards them like that. Having six of them all the same? It shows he doesn't appreciate them. I would have appreciated  _one_." She crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a smug look as if she'd just won the argument.

"No, I'm sure he spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on them, not to mention the state-of-the-art million dollar security system because… Aw, hell. Why am I even trying to explain this?" He shook his head and sighed. "He's a collector. He collects things. Deal with it."

"Jeez, Winston, chill! I was just messing with you."

"How'd it go?" Chance asked as Ames flounced into Ilsa's office to hand over the stolen jewellery.

"Four days in her company, yapping non-stop… How the hell did you think it went?"

"Good?"

"Yeah, Chance, it went good. Real good," Winston huffed, heading for the kitchen. "There had better be a pot of coffee waiting for me because I'm not spending half an hour trying to figure out that damn contraption again!"

Chance smiled. Ilsa's choice of replacement coffee maker had proven a little over ambitious, and Chance was the only one who was able to make it work without a lengthy consultation with the two-hundred page manual that came with it. It probably wouldn't have proved a problem for Guerrero either, but he enjoyed the entertainment value of watching a caffeine deprived Winston struggling to coax coffee from the machine, likening it to observing a manatee trying to use a typewriter.

As there was a pot of coffee waiting in the kitchen for Winston, Chance wandered into Ilsa's office to take a look at the recovered jewellery. Ilsa was on the phone, and Ames was perched on her desk, gesticulating wildly and mouthing the words: ask him out!

"…so you'll drop by the office this afternoon… Of course, a personal check will be fine… We look forward to seeing you then… You're very welcome, Simon. I'm glad we could help." Ilsa hung up.

"Il-sa!" Ames said, drawing her name out in a sing-song way. "Why didn't you ask him? He's totally into you!"

"She's right, you know," Chance said from his position leaning against the doorframe. "He does like you."

Ilsa sighed. "Well, until he settles his bill, he is still a client and I have this little thing called professionalism to consider. Perhaps you should Google it and familiarise yourself with the concept."

"Yeah, but once he's paid the bill…" Ames gave her a meaningful look and nodded slowly.

"Then it becomes a personal matter, and is none of your concern," Ilsa said firmly.

Chance ducked his head and smiled. Ilsa was definitely planning on asking Simon out.

* * *

Guerrero barely acknowledged the man leaving the building as he headed for the elevator, responding to his bright toothy smile with a curt nod. The case had been so straight forward that it had bordered on being dull, so with energy and frustration to burn, he'd called Chance and told him to keep the rest of the day free so they could spar.

When he stepped out of the elevator he was confronted with the sight of Ames doing some weird kind of victory dance as Ilsa watched in horror, looking like she wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

"Ames, that's enough!" she snapped.

"C'mon, this is huge! You're finally going on a real date!"

Guerrero's stomach lurched in the few seconds it too for Ilsa to notice his presence.

"Simon is taking me to dinner," she said hastily. "It's not that big a deal."

Guerrero wasn't quite sure what to make of the relief he felt knowing that Ilsa's 'real date' wasn't with Chance. He put it down the likelihood that Ilsa would've told Chance about them sleeping together in order to start over with a clean slate, and the problems that might have caused.

"But it's a date!" Ames grinned. "With dinner and dancing and maybe…"

"I said that's enough, Ames! Honestly, you wonder why I don't confide in you when this is the way you behave when I do!"

"But I'm excited for you!" Ames protested. "That's what happens when someone gets herself a hot date with a cute professor, her friends are excited for her."

"Well, I could certainly do with a lot less excitement and a little more discretion."

"Jeez, Ilsa. Try not to be so British! How's he gonna manage to-"

"Where's Chance?" Guerrero interrupted before he had to listen to any more.

"Kitchen," Ames said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in that direction.

Guerrero found him filling a couple of water bottles, ready for their workout.

"You heard the news, I take it?"

Chance smiled. "Ilsa's hot date with the prof? Kinda hard to miss it with the way Ames is carrying on."

"You cool with that?"

"Actually, yeah. It's sort of a weight off my mind, knowing that's she's moving on."

Guerrero nodded. Chance was right, Ilsa was moving on. It was probably all for the best.

* * *

In hindsight, Ilsa could see that her date with Simon was doomed from the start. It was all good in theory; Simon was charming, intelligent, witty, and behaved like an absolute gentleman, doing everything in his power to give Ilsa the perfect evening, but her mind was elsewhere. The stories that had captivated her when she had examples to look at seemed tedious at the dinner table, and she resorted to the vague smile and nod method to try to make it seem like she was listening. There were painful silences every time he tried to crack a joke, and even when she apologised and got him to repeat himself it fell flat because she hadn't heard the details which provided the context that was supposed to make the punch-line amusing.

It was all Guerrero's fault. And possibly Chance's too.

They had spent the whole afternoon sparring and, for reasons only known to themselves, they decided to do it on the mezzanine floor overlooking the office rather than the custom built gym Ilsa had put in on one of the lower floors. It had been difficult enough to ignore them hurling each other about in the space that was normally reserved for Chance to perform his infinitely quieter practice of Tai Chi, but when their sparring spilled onto the stairs they just carried on, as if the change of terrain was just another interesting feature of the fight. It didn't even slow them down, and suddenly Ilsa looked up to see them exchanging blows right outside her office.

At some point when she'd been studiously trying to ignore them, they had stripped off their shirts and they were fighting bare-chested. She felt her jaw drop at the sight of them half-naked and dripping with sweat, grinning like a pair of naughty school boys having the time of their lives as they tried to outdo each other. She'd seen them shirtless and she'd seen them fight, but nothing had prepared to see them like that, all hard muscle surging beneath glistening naked skin. It was practically pornography, and she just couldn't stop herself from staring. Fortunately they seemed totally oblivious to her watching them, and eventually Winston emerged from the conference room and told them to quit it before they broke something.

 _How could a perfectly nice academic measure up after watching a couple of writhing Adonises?_  Ilsa thought, giving herself a mental slap for using the term 'writhing Adonises', even in the privacy of her own mind. She had enjoyed watching them, but she shouldn't forget that lives often depended on their fighting skills, and that violence had always been a part of their lives.

She looked at the man sitting across the table from her and decided that Simon was certainly attractive, although not in the classical way that Chance was, or in the slightly sinister way that Guerrero appealed to her. Simon's soft brown eyes were kind, and he was quick to smile and laugh, but although she could see the warmth and interest in his expression, she didn't really feel it. Her inner critic pointed out his weak chin and too-pointed nose, and his cologne had a woody element to it that reminded her of mothballs. His career obviously involved more mental than physical work, and Ilsa noticed that there was perhaps the start of a middle-aged paunch hidden beneath his immaculately tailored suit.

During the main course she discovered that he held his knife as if it was a pen rather than in the correct manner, something that she found irrationally irritating. She longed to reach across the table and rap him across the knuckles with the back of her fork, the way her mother had done to her as a child whenever she felt her table manners were lacking. The way he held his knife only drew her attention to his hands, and she couldn't help noticing how long and slender his fingers were. They were pale and almost fragile looking, as if they had no strength in them. She thought of Guerrero's hands, rough with callouses, skilled and gentle at times but forceful and unrelenting when they needed to be. And then the knife itself made her think of the switchblade Guerrero had left behind, and at that moment Ilsa knew there was no way to salvage her date with Simon. It was a lost cause.

Simon was an intelligent and perceptive man, and he could see that the evening wasn't going as either of them had hoped, but he also had impeccable manners - aside from the way he mishandled his knife. At the end of the meal he politely thanked Ilsa for a delightful evening, and walked her to her car. Neither of them suggested that they might see one another again, and she was relieved that he handled it so delicately.

Almost as an afterthought, Simon produced a small jewellery box from his coat pocket and presented it to her.

"I thought perhaps these would make suitable thank you gifts for you and Miss Ames," he said, opening the box to reveal the two silver broaches decorated with intricate, twisting patterns that Ames and Winston had recovered for him.

"That's a lovely thought, Simon, but I couldn't possibly accept them," Ilsa said, mortified by the unexpected generosity of the gesture, coming as it did at the end of such a disastrous date. "If anyone was so see them and recognise them…"

Simon smiled and turned one of the broaches over. "I had them hallmarked today, see? No one can mistake them as anything but modern replicas."

Ilsa was touched by his thoughtfulness, and felt guilty that she had judged him so harshly. He was precisely the kind of man she  _should_  be dating, and yet after the afternoon's rampant display of testosterone she simply wasn't attracted to him anymore, and she was beginning to doubt that she ever was.

She did the only thing she could do: she smiled and thanked him for his kind gift, and got in her car as quickly as decently possible. He looked a little forlorn standing outside the restaurant, giving her a polite little wave as the car pulled away.

Ilsa cringed at the thought of having to face Ames' inevitable barrage of questions in the morning, sinking a little lower into her seat. She felt confused and ashamed for the shallow reasons she'd rejected Simon, and the unfair physical comparison between him and Guerrero. She'd always taken pride in putting more value on a person's character than on their appearance, but now it was all twisted around, and she didn't like what that said about her. She liked Simon, but she craved Guerrero, and that just wasn't her.

Sooner or later she was going to cave and call Guerrero over to her apartment again. It was an undeniable certainty that made her feel weak and disappointed in herself, and yet somehow relieved. Maybe she wasn't ready to date yet, and perhaps when she was, things would be different. In the meantime she and Guerrero were consenting adults, so what was the harm?


End file.
